


The Hole in my Heart (and my Stomach)

by Breadyboyo



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assault, Bad Parent Maggie Tozier, Bullying, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Holding Hands, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Sad Richie Tozier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25843885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breadyboyo/pseuds/Breadyboyo
Summary: When Wentworth Tozier dies from an undiagnosed case of cancer, Maggie retreats to an unhealthy coping mechanism - alcohol. Richie is left neglected, but Stan refuses to let him pick the pieces up alone.
Relationships: Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 3
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya! Thanks for giving the fic a click, I do hope you enjoy a hot platter of Richie angst.

Everything was great for Richie. He had loving parents, a close group of friends, constant care, and affection. He wouldn’t ask for anything more.

Everything was great for Richie - until it wasn’t.

Cancer. His father died from an undiagnosed case of cancer. He had been in the kitchen, where he suddenly collapsed to the floor - alerting Maggie who was in the living room. 

The funeral happened a few days later - dried autumn leaves were sprawled across the dirt that they stood on. A peaceful expression was on the man’s face as his coffin was closed and subsequently lowered into the ground. Condolences were muttered to him and his mother, but everything sounded like static as all he was able to focus on was the coffin being piled with dirt.

He didn’t know how his mother was holding up, but he couldn’t be bothered to ask, to comfort, to do anything. Not when he himself had an ever-increasing void in his heart that kept chewing and biting and devouring him.

So he retreated to his room, closing himself off from the world.

* * *

Richie’s stomach grumbled for the umpteenth time of the day, and deciding that he couldn’t go on without food for much longer, he leaves his room - careful to stay quiet as he tip-toes down the stairs.

Opening the fridge, he sees nothing - nothing except dozens of bottles of alcohol with unreadable labels plastered across. His stomach grumbled loudly in response. 

Walking towards the living room, the smell of alcohol invades his nostrils as he spots a half-awake Maggie looking into the TV, a random game show being played on the screen. A pile of empty bottles laid conspicuously next to the chair.

“M-Mom, there’s no food in the fridge,” Richie stammered out, gently shaking his mother’s shoulders to catch her attention.

An annoyed grunt is all he gets for a response before she puts the bottle to her lips, ignoring the fact that it was empty.

His stomach grumbled louder as he shook her shoulder again, this time a bit harder.

“Mom, I’m hungry,” Richie whispered, barely audible.

She stands up, then throws the bottle held in her arms - shattering it against a wall and causing a framed portrait to fall to the floor. The sound of the crash rings throughout his ears as it drowned out his thoughts.

Tears stung his eyes as he looked down, avoiding the furious gaze coming from his mother.

“Go to your room,” she said, before slumping back down to the chair and closing her eyes. The only noises in the room were his mother’s quiet snores and Richie’s barely audible sniffles.

Trudging towards the pile of shattered glass and broken frame, he kneels down and picks up the shards - noticing the picture that had fallen out of the frame. It was a portrait of him, his father, and his mother - smiles plastered across all their faces. 

The picture stings more than the glass shards cutting his skin. Tears slowly flow down his cheeks as he chokes on his sobs. He finishes cleaning and plods upstairs to his room - each step taken adding to the crushing weight on his back and his chest. 

Draping a blanket over himself, he closes his eyes and lets his consciousness slip through his fingers like sand.

* * *

School starts again, and he’s forced to put up his normal, chipper attitude lest he wanted his friends to catch suspicion. It worked well, despite some cracks here and there. Nobody noticed how his jokes seemed to lack the bite they used to have, how his smiles and laughs had to be forcibly clawed out of his throat, nobody noticed how everything their old Trashmouth had been replaced with a pathetic copy - a shell of his former self. Until they did.

Richie was walking home, Stan beside him - insisting that he come along - much to his chagrin. Stan had asked him if he could walk him home, a tint of worry in his eyes. Richie weighed his options - deciding that if Stan saw him walk home alright, he’d be less worried - and reluctantly agreed to the offer.

So there they were, halfway to his destination with Stan trailing right behind him, his gaze burning a hole through the back of his head.

The walk was quiet - evening winds and rustling leaves breaking the silence once in a while until Stan speaks up.

“So... what’s with you?” Stan asked, stopping in his tracks. Richie whips his head around.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just- you’ve been acting weird lately, Richie.”

“I’ve been fine, Stan-the-Man.” Richie puts on a pathetic excuse of a smile. “I’m just tired, okay?” 

“It’s not fine, Richie!” Stan yelled. “Everday you look like you didn’t sleep at all, a-and don’t think we don’t notice how _thin_ you are!” he gestures to the boy’s body.

Richie lets out a weak laugh as he looks down. “You’re starting to sound like Big Bill, Stanny.” 

“This isn’t funny, Richie!” Stan said, a distressed expression plastered on his face. “Y-You’re acting weird a-and you don’t seem to be eating anything and you never talk with us about anything and- and-” Stan was cut off by a quiet sniffle from the boy in front of him.

Tears were flowing down Richie’s cheek as he felt his legs lost power, causing them to buckle and him to fall to the sidewalk. Stan is quick to run to his friend’s side, propping him up and sitting him down. Richie continues to cry - face hidden behind two hands as pained sobs and long sniffles intrude on the calm and quiet atmosphere that was present a mere seconds ago. 

“M’ s-sorry, Stan.” Richie sputters out with a sandpaper-like voice. Stan merely pulls the boy closer, holding him in a tight embrace as he runs his hand against his friend’s bony torso - feeling just how under nurtured he was.

“Come over to my house,” Stan whispers, rubbing circles into Richie’s back. He feels a nod against his chest, and they pull away from the hug. Helping him stand up, they proceed to the Uris house - hands locked together with Stan squeezing Richie’s once in a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'll see if I can update sometime soon, but I do have another fic I need to be updating.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for Homphobic Assault. (Bowers is such an asshole)
> 
> GOD. IT HAS BEEN A _WHILEEEEEE_!!
> 
> I'm really sorry for those who wanted this out a lot earlier. I wrote the draft for this first chapter during my dry spell of ideas for my other (main) fanfic, MPHM. After I got back my groove, I elected to take a laid-back approach to writing this - chipping in words and sentences when I found myself filled with motivation. So, yeah! Hope you enjoy the chapter!
> 
> tl;dr: me am lazy idiot and me no write much for this. that's why me take so long to update.

Stan’s fist pounded onto the wooden door. Once. Twice. Three times. A pause before footsteps are heard on the other side of the door; it opens, revealing a familiar woman clad in a cherry-stewed blouse.

“Stanley, you’re back! And you brought Richie with!” she exclaimed, a pleased expression on her face. “How have you been, Richie? Well, I assume?”

He almost freezes on the spot, if not for Stan’s grounding hand squeeze behind their backs.

“Y-Yeah, Mrs. Uris. I’ve been doing fine.” Richie said, swallowing back his nervous bile as she invited them with a wave of her hand. They brush their shoes against the old doormat and start their walk to Stan’s room, stopping only to acknowledge Mrs. Uris's announcement of dinner being cooked and Richie’s invitation to join in. 

When they enter, Richie catches sight of a poster for one of his favorite music band - a birthday present for Stan, despite the boy’s lack of interest in any sort of music - hanging above the familiar navy-blue bed where he’d often sat or slept during sleepovers. Old and tattered royal-blue wallpaper adorned the walls like the many posters filled with bird trivia and pictures of birds.

They take a seat across each other with Richie plopping unceremoniously onto a green, cushy bean bag and focusing his gaze on the floor whilst Stan calmly seated himself on his bed. The room was eerily quiet, devoid of sound; it unsettled Stan. Taking Richie’s motormouth in consideration, there’d be no way Richie wouldn’t be running his mouth - making jabs at Stan’s appearance or cracking ridiculous and highly inappropriate jokes at every opportune moment - if the situation they were in was normal.

It wasn’t. That was the thing - none of this was normal.

Pulling his head up, he catches the scowl on Stan’s face before snapping back to awkwardly look at the floor.

“Richie, I need you to talk to me, okay?” The curly-haired boy said, breaking the silent atmosphere the room once had and replacing it with a tense one. “Has Maggie been taking care of you? Feeding you?”

Richie merely continues to look down at the ground as a response. A frustrated sigh escaped Stan’s mouth. “Fine, if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. Just- Just don’t be scared or embarrassed to come over if you need anything, alright?”

Giving a meek nod, there’s a quick pause before the bed lets out a loud creak, He looks up to see Stan standing in front of him, his bouncy curls and spotted freckles that beautifully decorated his face being illuminated - highlighted, almost - by the room’s light. He pulls him up and tells him that dinner should be ready by now, which causes drool to pool at the corner of his mouth - much to Stan’s entertainment.

They leave, and Richie stares at Stan’s face as they walk, drinking in his pretty features. Catching his gaze, Stan snorts - a wide smile spreading on his face. Richie manages out a weak smile in response, and Stan twines their fingers together.

* * *

Richie winced at the note written in bright-red marker on the parchment he got back.

 **“F - See me after class, Richard.”**

He’d gotten an earful after school left about how important it was to keep his grades up, how if he continued down a path, he would be held back, or maybe even flunk out altogether. He’d simply nod at all the points, not paying much attention to what words were being spat out at him. At the end of it, he felt his body drained of all energy. There was no pep in his step as he trudged home, backpack slung carelessly over his shoulders.

The ever-present void in his mind continued to ravage his thoughts to the point of his lack of care for what’s happening in front of him. His self-destructive train of thought halts all movement as he feels his body tilt and fall - wind rushing past his face as it makes harsh contact with the asphalt road.

Turning to lay on his back, the magnified eyes behind his coke-bottle glasses seem to turn even larger as he drank in the features of an older boy.

One Henry Bowers with an amused grin on his face was towering over him - his lackeys right behind him laughing and cackling at the sight.

“Saw you holding hands with that Jew. Always pegged you for a cock-sucking flamer, but I didn’t know that Jew was a faggot too.” Bowers spat out with a devious smile on his face. “Bet you like sucking his dick, don’t you, you fucking fairy?”

The fuse in the pit of his stomach seemed to light at the mention of his best friend. Standing up whilst clutching his stomach, he formed a closed fist with his free hand and struck forward - his hand making contact with Bowers’ nose.

The older boy staggered back - covering the front of his nose with his palm. Blood began to trickle past the crack between his fingers. Lowering his palm, crimson blood smeared against his hand - red contrasting the light-cream color of his skin.

There was a silence between the two - broken only by Richie’s occasional ragged breaths as his hand tightly held his chest.

Looking up from his blood-stained hands, Bowers’ face contorted to that of uncontrollable fury - eyes gleaming with rage. A scream and a punch to the face later - Richie was lying on the ground with his broken glasses nowhere in sight and a nose that didn’t want to stop spilling blood.

Another punch was sent to his cheeks like the slurs directed to him. Another punch, another slur. The actions seemed to loop for eternity - it was hard to tell time when you felt like passing out - until a satisfied expression finally crept up Bowers’ face at the sight of his beaten and bloodied almost-corpse.

“Hope you learned your fucking lesson, faggot.” Bowers said, spitting on Richie’s face as he and his gang walked away. He laid there on the sidewalk - body sore and sight blurry. 

Consciousness started to slip from away from him as dark spots engulfed his vision. The last noise he heard before dipping into unconsciousness was the loud skid of a wheel against the dry asphalt ground he laid on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading the second chaptterr! I want to say I could get the third chapter out soon-ish, but I hate to disappoint those who excitedly wait with baited breath for the next chapter. So I'll just say I promise I'll release it after I release MPHM Chapter 5. Until then, I bid thee a tip of the hat, and a farewell.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’ll be there for him. He’ll stand by him all the way. He’ll be _his_ guiding light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, here I am. With another. Chapter. 
> 
> Sigh. I really wanted to get this out earlier, but this morning and the few past days in general have been rough.
> 
> But here it is, another chapter for you maniacs that like my terrible writing. I hope you stozier crabs enjoy. (I am also a stozier crab)
> 
> (am sorry for being a short chapter. i wanted to stop the angst train where it was and this was the only pause i got so.. yeah... sorryyyy)

Stan doesn’t see himself as someone optimistic, self-confident, brave, amiable, or a lot of other things. But when he’s around Richie, nothing seems to matter. Richie is a lot like a black hole - pulling everything in the vicinity to him.

The boy’s aura captivates people like Stan - people who need direction, a light that guides. His funny - albeit, inappropriate - jokes, his warm and confident smile, his breathy laughs that can add hilarity to any situation. Everything about Richie was so enthralling to him; he was Stan’s ball of light - his guiding hand.

That was why Stan felt a part of himself crumble at the news of Richie’s father’s death. His guiding light was nowhere to be seen, and so, Stan became lost. Lost in a fog of uncertainty with no clear start or end. Days blurred together, time felt like nothing but another number with each moment he was away from Richie.

And with the pain of separation, came the joy of reunification. Except - something was wrong. Instead of a bright, ever-lit sun, the boy came back as a dull, flickering lightbulb.

Warm, common smiles turned into pained ever-present frowns. An affinity for jokes, and talking in general, turned into a deafeningly quiet silence that didn’t belong. Everything about this new Richie was wrong; broken and damaged.

Stan kept his thoughts to himself as he followed the boy like he always did - silently hoping he would magically return to his normal self. He didn’t.

With each passing day, he felt Richie slowly drift away into insignificance. He refused to accept that his once bright friend would become a dark, empty shell. So, with all the courage he was able to muster on that cold autumn afternoon, he confronted Richie.

He didn’t expect to find such dark secrets hiding under the skin of his childhood friend.

He made a promise to himself that night as he stared at Richie’s sleeping figure - peaceful expression accompanied by quiet snores.

He’ll be there for him. He’ll stand by him all the way. He’ll be _his_ guiding light.

* * *

His cool and collected demeanor turns to ice and shatters into pieces at the same time his blood falls below freezing point.

Richie’s stiff and corpse-like body laid on the sidewalk - alone and abandoned like an unwanted toy.

Stan feels every one of his senses overwhelmed:

The smell of the afternoon air turns into the smell of a person’s blood.

The sight of the beautiful autumn leaves dancing in the wind turns into the sight of the horrifyingly still and bruised figure of a boy. 

The feeling of the solid concrete path underneath him turns into a brittle and fragile wooden bridge ready to collapse and swallow him whole.

The sound of the birds chirping as they flew in the air turns into the deafening silence caused by Stan’s squeezed-shut throat. 

The lingering sickly-sweet from a recent candy eaten turns into the unbearable metal taste encompassing his tongue and mouth.

His legs switch to overdrive as he runs as fast as he can towards the crumpled form. Panic and bile rise up his throat as he picks Richie up into his arms and shakes him with the strength from desperation as an attempt to wake the boy up - only to no avail.  
“Please!” Stan yells desperately, snapping his head around looking for someone - anyone - to help. “Someone, please! My friend needs help!”

Tears trickle down his grief-stricken eyes - splashing against Richie’s now damp shirt. He can hear the vague sound of a car behind him, but everything except what’s in front of him - Richie’s bloodied face, tired features, purple-bruise scattered limbs - goes out off focus, and any noise except the sobs coming from his own mouth turn into a humming buzz.

A tight hand grips onto Stan’s shoulder, and he looks up and turns around - tears still dripping - to the face of one Maggie Tozier.

Anger immediately floods his stomach at the sight of the person who’s caused Richie - his Richie - so much pain and suffering. It’s because of her, Richie isn’t the same person he used to be. It’s because of her, that his used-to-be bright sun flickered and died and turned into a dull shell of his former self. It’s because of her, that-

Richie’s shallow breaths turn quiet, and his fury had all been replaced with panicked concern for his friend.

“Please,” Stan sobbed, pressing his face against the woman’s crystal-blue blouse. “Please save him,”

The grip on his shoulder slowly creeps over to his cheeks - cupping them softly. Stan pulls away and looks into Maggie Tozier’s eyes. They look genuine and sad.

“Get in the car, Stanley.” she said with a stern but caring tone, turning her head and gesturing to the Volkswagen behind her. He feels his head give a meek nod before he stands still and trudges to the car door with stiff, robotic movements. His head turns around one final time to the sight of Maggie scooping Richie into her arms and whispering something to the unconscious boy in her arms.  
His eyes droop from exhaustion when he sits down, and By the time Maggie has safely seated Richie in the passenger seat and started the engine, he’s is long gone - deep asleep in nightmares accompanied by Richie’s unmoving and bloody corpse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmmmmmyes
> 
> bad mommy maggie turns into ok mommy maggie? more in the next chapter coming in god knows when cause my update schedule is as consistent as 2 year expired chunky peanut butter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why did you stop taking care of Richie?” Stan said, cutting the silence in half with an ice-cold tone that hid a hint of anger beneath it.
> 
> There was a long, drawn-out pause before a response came from the older woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOP. here it is, chapter 4. i swear, i didn't mean for the chapter to have come out so late. last week was exams week, and thus I had to spend less and less time writing. but that's over now! and my school schedule has pulled back on its length! which means more time after school, i.e more writing time, i.e more chapters! i hope you enjoy!

_Richie was floating. His body wasn’t touching the ground - suspended in the air like a helium balloon and inching slowly forward like a snail._

_Richie was floating, and then he wasn’t. A hand gripped his leg with that of great fervor and pulled down - taking Richie with it. It wasn’t long until his foot made contact with a sort of gooey, black liquid. As he was pulled lower and lower, the liquid covered more and more of his body, reaching up to his neck._

_He felt his energy dissipate from his body as his eyes flickered close. Consciousness slipped away from his as his head sunk into the pit of black goo._

* * *

Stan sat on the three-seat sofa thoughtlessly biting his nails - the soft, cotton texture of the seat failing to calm his nerves.

Richie had just been wheeled into the ICU and despite Maggie’s insistence on seeing her son, the doctor hadn’t budged, stating that Richie needed to be stabilized before being allowed visitors. So here they were - Maggie pacing back and forth with worry etched into her face and Stan sitting on the chair as dark thoughts started to replace hopeful ones.

As dozen turned to half dozen, a man clad in a doctor’s apparel entered the room and approached them. Noticing the man’s presence, Maggie stopped her distressed walk and turned around.

“Mrs. Tozier?” the man asked, flipping open a few pages on his clipboard. Maggie nodded her head in confirmation. “How- how is he, doc?”

“Well, the worst of his injuries - a few broken ribs and some internal bleeding - have been cared for. Though when he’ll return consciousness, we don’t know.”

“Can I see him, doctor?” she asked, sounding hopeful.

He shook his head. “Richard might be stable for now, but this might change. We need to be sure that nothing will pop out of the blue, so we’ll need to restrict visitors until we’re confident of his condition.”

“Oh, okay…” she said, looking down in disappointment. Catching the downtrodden look, the doctor tries to reassure her with an “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” and a warm smile before walking back to what seemed to be his office.

The walk outside was filled with chattering from bystanders. Maggie opened the door to her car expecting Stan to just slide in and forget the things she did. It’s not a surprise that when Stan simply stayed still, a look of confusion appeared on the older woman’s face.

“Stanley? Don’t you want a ride home?” she asked. He simply scoffed at the offer and muttered out a “No thanks, Mrs. Tozier.” before starting to walk away.

“Wait- Stanley, I’m sure you’re tired and exhausted. It’d be easier to just-”

“Since when do _you_ care, Mrs. Tozier?”

No response came. Stan didn’t bother turning around to meet her eyes.

“Why did you stop taking care of Richie?” Stan said, cutting the silence in half with an ice-cold tone that hid a hint of anger beneath it.

There was a long, drawn-out pause before a response came from the older woman.

“Ever since-” A hesitant pause, “Ever since Wentworth passed away, I wasn’t able to take care of myself, let alone Richie.” Guilt plagued her voice as she continued - tears shed. “I was so devastated. Went was- he meant so much, and to have him taken away so suddenly and harshly, it broke me.”

Stan snapped his head around. “That doesn’t give you an excuse to just- just-” he tripped with his words as he struggled to contain his anger, “abandon Richie like that!”

“I know that!” she yelled back, stopping the car by a sidewalk. “I- I know that, Stanley.”

Her voice trailed to silence before Stan once again shattered the silence.

“Sorry isn’t going to heal Richie.” Stan said, turning forward. “If you’re truly sorry, then make an effort to be better.” he spat out, acid lacing his words.

The cold afternoon pricked his skin like needles as he walked away.

* * *

The days blurred together as Richie stayed unconscious. Stan spent his time - barely - keeping his grades at an acceptable level, deflecting worry from his parents, and visiting Richie at the hospital with a new bouquet of assorted daisies, peonies, and hydrangeas in hand every time.

He hadn’t seen Maggie since the time Richie was first admitted. Good riddance, if anything. He didn’t need her fake sympathy. Richie would pull through, and everything will be fine.

_If Richie pulls through_

Stan shook the thought out of his head and closed his math homework - plodding to his bed and sprawling himself onto the sheets

He felt exhaustion take over his mind as he closed his eyes and slipped into a deep sleep.

* * *

The loud knocking against wood woke him up from his slumber. Brushing away the sleep from his eyes, he got up and dressed in his favorite teal button-up before rushing downstairs.

Opening the door, he was met with the disheveled face of one Maggie Tozier, hair tied back messily and dress shirt wrongly buttoned; the urge to fix the woman’s apparel tugged at him, but he ignored it.  
“Stanley. It’s Richie, he’s- he’s awake.”

The announcement dropped on him with no warning like a bomb. His knees turned to jelly as his grip on the door handle started to falter.

“I came here with my car. It’ll be faster if we rode there. Do you want to-”

Stan interrupted the question with a fervent nod. There was no time to be bitter about the woman’s past wrongdoings if Richie was awake.

She nodded back and they walked to the car - Stan seating himself and adjusting his seat buckle as Maggie slotted her keys in and lit the ignition. She stepped on the gas pedal, and they were gone.

As they quickly parked in an open space in front of the hospital, Stan slammed open the car door and broke into a run - passing the doors and registration straight to Room 65; Richie’s room.

Pushing the door open, his eyes stung with tears at the image in front of him. Richie was sitting on his bed - inspecting the bouquet he had left yesterday.

Hearing the noise, Richie looked up from flowers and caught Stan’s tear-flooded eyes.

A weak smile formed on his lips at the sight of his best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> best friends? or more?
> 
> till' next time, my lovely readers <3
> 
> talk or yell at me in frustration and anger at my inconsistent-as-chunky-peanut-butter update schedule on Discord here: bread#6010


	5. finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes. the finale, well, its been a good like two months just to finish this 5-chapter fic. sorry :(

Richie’s eyes met Stan’s tear-streaked own. The two corners of his mouth tilted up at the sight of his friend. Before a word even left his mouth, the curly-haired boy was already sprinting towards him - hands wrapping around his back in a tight hug. He could feel tears stain his hospital gown as Stan’s palm held onto Richie as if he would disappear if he even thought of letting go.

The quiet sobs that came from his friend accompanied the constant beeping beside him as the only noises that could be heard. His hands left delicate pats on the curly-haired boy’s head in an attempt to comfort. Stan’s disheveled state was a stark contrast to the usual standard that his friend held himself to when regarding appearance. The deep, purple bags that he occupied beneath his eyes that told a tale of countless sleepless nights, the replacing of his usual apparel of button-ups with a crinkly t-shirt that was given no prior consideration before being haphazardly thrown on, the unruly brown curls that stuck to his forehead from beads of sweat. Overall, everything about the boy in front of him was quite the opposite of what he would ever expect.

They sat there, Stan holding Richie close and Richie trying his best to comfort his friend. His voice cut through the silence like a knife.

“I missed you,” he said after his tears were wept dry. 

“Me too.”

Stan pulled away from the hug and sat beside Richie on his bed. The crisp afternoon air was seeping into the room as the now dimming sunlight shone through the open window.

A knocking on the door startled them out of their dreamy haze. As it swung open - revealing the person behind, a sad frown crept up his face. There stood Maggie Tozier, a look of worry and concern that Richie’s never seen from the women since his father’s passing.

Stan stood up at that moment - quickly muttering out an “I’ll leave you two alone,” before shuffling outside without sending a second glance to Maggie as he walked past her.

The thick tension that filled the room was suffocating. Questions and words that wanted to leave his throat ended up stuck in his mouth like a bitter aftertaste. His gaze stuck to the floor - occasionally glancing upwards to meet the eyes that were so similar to his, before quickly glancing back down.

The sudden footstep towards him came as a surprise, and Richie almost jumped out of his skin if not for his restraint. The ever-nearing footsteps triggered his instinct to protect himself, causing his hands to go up to his face defensively.

Peeking through the gap between his fingers, he saw only a look of hurt on her mother’s face almost as if the thought of Richie having a self-defense mechanism that she partly caused had wounded her.

“Richie…” she cooed, slowly wrapping her son between her soft arms as one of her hands reached up to carder through his hair comfortingly. The touch of his mother that he thought would no longer care for him left him yearning - leaning deeper into her arms. “I- I know I’ve been neglectful of you ever since Went’s passing. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but please, give me a second chance?” she said with a pleading tone in her voice.

He nodded into her shirt - pulling away as he tried avoiding her gaze. Clamping her hands onto Richie’s, she whispered an “I love you, baby,” before stepping away from his bedside. Sending one more glance towards her son, she exited the room.

Not long after, a hesitant-looking Stan stepped into the room, eyeing Richie and the door back and forth. “What did she say?” he asked with a furrowed brow.

“That she’s sorry,” he muttered out - barely audible. Stan hummed in agreement before walking back towards his previous spot. The two sat side-by-side, sneaking glances at each other.

The warm and comfy ambiance of the room served to calm his mood as his head started to droop sideways - leaning on Richie’s shoulder. The older boy made no show of resistance or dislike, merely a glance to him before the corners of his mouth shifted upwards. A hot redness quickly crawled up at Stan’s cheeks from the soft smile - his freckles standing out in the sea of bright red.

The breathy giggle that resounded from Richie caused only for the red to reach up to Stan’s ears. Reaching for the other’s hand, he flipped it over before slotting his fingers in between the crevices of Stan’s own - squeezing tightly.

* * *

Richie was on the couch as the TV blared some random late-night news. A comfy blanket was draped over his figure and a sweet, marshmallow-filled mug of hot chocolate was sitting securely in his arms - small sips of the beverage taken here and there.

The sound of footsteps sauntering down a foot of stairs rang behind him before he spun his head around. His vision lands on the freshly-showered Stan - mop of curls still damp - in his pajamas whilst holding a glass of hot chocolate in one hand and popcorn in the other.

“Hey,” Richie said, a smile on his face as Stan walked towards the couch - placing his drink and their snack onto the table in front of them.

“Hi yourself,” Stan said back, plopping onto the seat next to the blanket-covered boy. “What do you wanna watch?” he asked, only to get a shrug from Richie. Suggesting that they watch Moana, a hum of agreement escaped his boyfriend’s mouth.

With the press of a button, the news show that had been playing prior was replaced with the opening of the movie. The chilly night air had somehow seeped into the living room, and Stan shivered in place - betraying his coldness.

Noticing the small movement, Richie quickly settled his mug down before draping the unused length of his blanket over the curly-haired boy’s figure - covering both of them under the soft and warm object. Stan made a noise of gratitude before taking his glass of chocolate and putting it to his lips - the sickly-sweet brown drink bursting into pure flavor on his tongue.

They watched the movie in relative silence, sometimes sneaking glances to the other, and also sometimes meeting each other’s eyes.

Whenever they did, a smile would form on both their faces.

* * *

The final moments of the movie ended before the beginning of the credits begun to roll; Stan was quick to turn off the movie to spare them of the boringness of names sliding past a screen.

They sat in silence - the dim moonlight streaming through the curtained window and into the room they were in. As if to add to the moment of peace, Richie leaned up - placing a small kiss onto the taller boy’s cheek. The reaction had been spontaneous; bright red began to flood Stan’s features.

“You’re cute.” Richie merely said before returning to take a sip of his hot chocolate. “Ugh,” Stan groaned, placed his own kiss onto Richie’s cheek - a content sigh leaving his mouth as he took another look at the boy beside him.

God, he was so in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yell at me on Discord here: bread#6010


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